WALKING THE WILDERNESS 18 Poems Writing/Art [© 2000 by Cara Swann; all rights reserved] Author's Email: authoress1@juno.com -------------------------------- Walking The Wilderness Step by step, trudge on; Walk on, walk on, Climb the mountain that beckons; A lonely plateau that calls For only the few, The few who are to be Vessels for the muse. Wider paths are on the earth, Easier to navigate, safer to steer Through life's many trials... But the mountaintop beckons For those who know their Fate. Walk on, walk on, Climb the wilderness path, Fight your way to the top: A bleak, barren ground Where solitude reigns supreme. Come alone, remain alone, live alone: Walking the wilderness Is walking alone with only Faith in talent for solace. ********************************************************** For Emily Dickinson I know why Life passed you by With only half a sigh. I know why You let time fly by, Spurned others to die A spinster, a loner, A solitary soul. Emily, you were wise To deny public access To those piercing, poignant verses Written from heights of genius... Your work didn't fit public demand. Unknown, you perished, Leaving a legacy for artists Worth a gold kingdom: Indifference to the madness Of the judgmental masses Is the purest salvation For an artist's soul. ****************************************************** Hemingway & Fitzgerald I know why Ernest Hemingway And Scott Fitzgerald Chose to partake Of strong drink. One for the soul, One for the heart To bring Art alive. They needed the release That came more easily When strong drink Allowed them to touch Their hidden subconscious. Being men, they were blocked, Couldn't let go, venture deep, Like women who live inwardly Knowing emotional terrain intimately. ********************************************************** A Writer Universal Consciousness Spilling over Into written words, Filling the endless night With brilliant Light. *********************************************************** Fiction Is Truth In Disguise. *********************************************************** The keyboard is like a finely tuned piano, and my fingers race across the keys making a melody of written words on the computer screen...the harmony reflected in a reader's eyes. ************************************************************ Unspoken Words Written words from the soul do speak, And touch with a sharp feeling peak, Like a fragile floating bubble, A world unto itself until touched... So the written words until spoken A world of feeling from the heart, Suddenly to burst and disappear -- The bubble gone into the unknown, And the feelings lost in conversation. ********************************************************** The Creative Writer You are hundreds of others But you can never be Just one -- yourself; You have to say for them What they cannot; You have to be where you are not... The confines of here and now, Not your abode; In a realm of them you must dwell, To become the voice of people Who are powerless to speak. Please, do not grieve, Or regret your solitary state... For you shall forever live In the vast multitudes. ************************************************** Talent, The Wild Wind It cannot be defined Nor captured; It dwells within, And like a cyclone, Raging with violence, Sometimes damages its host. Talent, the wild wind, Recognized by millions Who scream to hold it, own it. But talent cannot be owned, Very rarely even understood; It must be unconfined, free, To blow as wild as the wind. Humans want a fleeting touch, But talent, like the wind, Escapes their greedy clutches; Unknowable, the muse Is an alien among us. ************************************************ Never-Ending Mystery Creative artists trust in innocence -- They see a vision in a heart's mission. Creative artists want to capture the essence Of all humanity, of all life is -- They desire a deeper destiny than most. Creative artists look beneath the surface, They glimpse a shimmering image -- One which captures their imagination, And embraces them in a never-ending mystery. ************************************************************ Novel: A Stacked Deck Playing one card at a time, Laying it down stealthily, But steadily; Building hand upon hand Of suspense, tension; Smoothly stacking, Tightly packing Each card on the pile; Then an ace falls, The climax explodes: A novel is born. ************************************************************ Free Verse If I must rhyme and rhythm, And meter and pace My poetry -- Why then, isn't it obvious That this is not truly Free, flowing feelings? Isn't that intricate, elaborate, Deliberate and difficult Effort masking honest emotion? Please spare me painful, skillful Attention to rules and guidelines, Imitation of perfectly crafted verse, And theft of past poets' styles! Give me instead... Open, free phrases and phases Of my own limitless imagination. ******************************************************** On Reading An Anthology of New Yorker Poems Why should I, a poet, Seek to be oblique and obscure? Dark birds flying into angry skies, References to dim, distant mythology, Are strange and crazy symbols To an everyday intelligence. And why should I, a poet, Seek to speak only to genius? In the back alleys of some big city, On the lonely streets of a small town, Out there somewhere are those to whom I, a poet, should be directing my words. These words should be familiar emblems To common folks, to the sad, sorrowful or lost; And these simple words should convey TRUTH, HOPE, LOVE In plain, clear language they will understand -- Not obscure riddles created by elite intellectuals. ******************************************************* Genre Slant your novel this way, Fence it in with restrictions; Tuck it in like cornered bedcovers, Then fold it back exactly The very same way for public Distribution, so it comes out bland And never shocks or surprises, But appeals to readers of repetition And is sure to make monetary profit. ***************************************************** Critique Circle Males: The piece has too much, Or not enough, The syntax is wrong, The structure too long; Perhaps you could do better, Learn to be a fine writer From my superior criticism. Females: The piece is good I like it somehow; The style is precise, The subject not so nice, Yet I think it has potential; Sorry if I offend, I apologize for my opinion. ********************************************************** Power & Magic Writing is like living, Touching and moving, Shaping and forming, A feeling, a flight Of soaring high... Transcending reality Into illusion, Wildly abandoning earth For glory-bound realms Of the shimmery imagination; Floating in timelessness Without a trace of reason, Suspended in spiritual wisdom, Life now frozen into meaningful Portraits of understanding By the power & magic Of written words. **************************************************** An Artist I am nowhere Yet everywhere, And anywhere. I belong To no one, Yet to everyone. I am, I said, Everywhere... Always there, Unseen, unheard, Observing, recording. I am within All, Hearing the haunting Call, Of humanity's Universal Voice, Blending it into a Cosmic Whole. I, an artist. ***************************************************** A Forever Love Affair Oh writing, my love...what are you to me? More than anyone can know...for you are to me -- ALL. When the wind blows outside my window Howling for changes, for diversions, Urging me to abandon this harsh conviction, I cover my ears and let tears Have their way with me: Boring nights in front of mindless TV, Trying to evade the Call, Trying to soothe the hollow ache without you, writing. But then the night comes when I sit again Wrapped up with my creativity, And knowing heart and soul is forever yours, writing. It isn't that I want it this way... Alone and unknown, perhaps always unrecognized, It's just that you, my talent, command And there is no manner of escape -- Not in pleasurable pursuits or idle restlessness, Nor in subtle daydreams, which only spawn story ideas: Every occurrence, every person, every nuance of an event Is but another idea, another story, another reason To write, to bring life to airy nothingness... Creating, dreaming, living or loving, It is all just part of the art of capturing Life's fleeting images in written words... A writer's gift to make it come alive for others, To portray significant themes for all eternity. So writing you are to me -- ALL. Should I forsake the Call, Whispered from earliest childhood? Or should I heed it and go forward Blindly into that maze of artistic souls Who struggle, write and then tumble into oblivion? In the end, It doesn't matter about recognition or success, For writing is a relentless master That turns talent into a forever love affair. And writers must write or be damned! --The End--